Kinds of Beauty
by Oni No Yami Chan
Summary: For my mother. House and Wilson have a heart-to-heart about their friendship.


Note: I'd like to appologize to the people who read this before the edit. Wilson is an oncologist, not a neurologist; I wrote this while I was half-asleep and a muse struck me. I also had Amber's name as April before my editor took a look at it, so I'm very sorry that slipped. Thank you for pointing it out.

"She was always so beautiful," the woman's husband muttered as he peered in through the glass around her hospital room. She was asleep now, exhausted from the chemotherapy Wilson had just finished administering to her. She had no hair left by this point. The cancer was winning.

"So beautiful," he muttered, turning away, sadly. He was a man of thirty-four, who had only been married once and didn't know a thing about love or the real world. They'd never had children, never even spoken about them, in the three years they had been married. And now this.

"Why did she have to do this to me?" the man hissed, and at these words, Wilson felt an anger rising up inside himself. It wasn't her fault that she got cancer; it was hereditary. One cannot change their genes, as one cannot change the moving of the tides. But this man, this awful man who dared to call her his wife, was blaming her for her own misfortune. She was fighting, had been fighting, but it was too strong. She was going to lose, and this terrible, wretched man was going to curse her to her grave.

Despite all of this, Wilson said nothing. Silence met the bastard's comment, but Wilson made sure it was cold. Instead, he allowed his friend to chew the man out.

"You really think she chose this?" House's gravely voice demanded, nonchalantly. "You can't choose to have cancer, dumbass --especially not cancer like this. Though you can choose ignorance. Nice choice by the way," he added, mockingly.

A small smile spread over Wilson's previously solemn face at the other doctor's comments. He knew that House usually wouldn't have said anything, or would have only to piss the man off, but this time he said it just for him. If only to make him feel better. Because House knew him better than anyone else: Bonny, Julie, even Amber. It was nice to have someone like that around.

Sadly, Wilson couldn't stay for the argument that was ensuing between the two men beside him. His patient was waking up. Before either of the other two noticed, he swiftly made his way into the cool hospital room, holding his clipboard in front of himself and looking over his notes one more time. There really wasn't anything to tell, though. She was going to die, plain and simple. She had about a month left, and then it was over.

"Good afternoon, Margaret," Wilson greeted as pleasantly as he could muster, smiling meekly at the groggy woman lying prone on the hospital bed. "How are you feeling?" he asked, sitting down next to her bedside.

As Margaret pressed a button beside her bed to raise the upper half of her body into a sitting position, she replied, "Tired. Pained. Did it work?"

Obviously she hadn't forgotten about the procedure. "Well, Mrs. Grey," Wilson answered, flipping through his clipboard, but he was stopped short.

"It didn't work."

Wilson looked up into her tired, dull sapphire eyes. When she had first come in, those eyes would sparkle with laughter. They were almost friends. "... No, I'm afraid it didn't," he whispered, unable to find a louder voice. To his surprise, the woman shrugged her shoulders and smiled meekly at him.

"It happens. You're a good doctor, but you can't save us all. I'm just glad that I was here and not anywhere else." Carefully, she reached an arm over and placed a slender, pale hand on his knee. She used to play piano, her husband had said. There was no doubt in Wilson's mind about that statement as he looked down at her nimble fingers. He couldn't look anywhere else.

"You did your best for me. And that's all I ever wanted," Margret continued, patting Wilson's knee in a friendly manner.

Before he could respond, Wilson was once again interrupted, but this time by Margaret's no-good husband busting into the room. "Margaret!" he cried, hysterically, as though he had not just been standing outside blaming her for this mess. "What did he say? What's going on? Are you alright?"

"Jim," Margaret whispered.

Jim. Wilson's nickname. There had only been one person who had ever called him that, and now that person was gone from his life. Good riddance, really, but he hadn't left alone; he had a piece of Wilson inside him now. That meant that despite how hurt Wilson had been by his sudden leaving of his family, he found that he would probably forgive him if ever he was needed by the man again. Also, House would throw a fit, and the prospect was amusing to Wilson.

"Don't worry," Margaret continued. "It's over. I've lost. But I'm alright with it." Jim stared at his wife, disbelief written all over his face. When the shock went away, Wilson knew from experience there would either be tears or anger. "Jim," the woman repeated, "It's okay. We can at least spend my last days of life together, can't we?"

Hatred spewed from the man's lips like bile, his angered words echoing and resonating throughout the room. Wilson was sure that House's team could even hear the ruckus all the way in their conference room. When his anger was quelled a bit, Jim turned, not to Wilson, but to Margret and screamed, "I knew there was something about you!! I knew it was a mistake the moment I said 'I do!' Y-you're so fucking ugly!"

Wilson's eyes widened and his mouth opened, but again he wasn't able to speak as Jim angrily stormed from the room, snatching his coat from a table on his way out. Turning his eyes to Margaret, Wilson cried, "It's alright, he's just upset, he didn't know what he was talking about!"

But the dying woman held up a hand to silence him. "Let him go," she answered, smiling good-naturedly. "He's right, I am ugly."

Wilson sat in shocked silence, trying to dredge up words that may dissuade her from believing her asshole of a life-partner. But he didn't have to, because she continued.

"I'm ugly on the outside now, because of the chemo. But it's okay. There are different kinds of ugliness... And beauty," Margaret added, raising her hand off Wilson's knee to cup his chin in her long, thin fingers. She forced him to look in her eyes, staring him down. "Do you understand me, Doctor Wilson? If there's one thing I have learned in life it is that beauty can come in many different forms. You are very beautiful to me, Doctor."

The oncologist sputtered and stumbled over his words, feeling his cheeks growing hot. Margaret chuckled; a high tinkling sound. Wilson's heart leapt. "Don't be embarrassed, Doctor. As I've said, there are different kinds of beauty."

She finally let him go, settling back against the pillows that propped her head and neck. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get some rest."

"Of course, Mrs. Grey," Wilson muttered his embarrassed reply, standing. "I'll check on you tomorrow. Make sure you get plenty of rest."

"Yes, yes, Doctor," she responded, heartily, watching him leave.

-----

"-- And so then he started spewing blood all over the operating room. It was disgusting, really, but it was worth it to see Carmen covered in liquids," House explained, popping a sunflower seed into his mouth. He chewed it, thoughtfully, for a moment before spitting the shell out into the bag. Wilson winced. Disgusting. "Anyway, so we finally got him to stop bleeding only to realize that Chase had cut into the wrong artery, so now we -- being Foreman, of course -- had to stitch up his bladder, too."

"Fascinating," Wilson responded, distantly. He was still thinking about Margaret Grey and what she had said to him only hours ago. He had yet to tell House, certain his friend would laugh at him about the encounter.

Without warning, Wilson found himself with a face-full of House, those cold cerulean irises boring into his own with a mixture of annoyance and the curiosity of a very unruly child. "You're not listening," he scolded, bopping Wilson on the head with his cane. Though it hadn't been hard, it still smarted. Wilson rubbed the top of his head, glaring at the other doctor.

"I was too listening," Wilson argued, turning back to his paperwork. With a sigh, House knocked the papers onto the floor impatiently, soliciting a surprised cry from Wilson. House cut him off, putting the head of his cane under Wilson's chin and tilting the oncologist's head so they were looking into each other's eyes. Like Margaret had, only less personally.

Studying him for a moment or so, House finally decided on a hypothesis and presented it. "It's about that Margaret woman. The one dying of breast cancer."

After a moment of hesitation, Wilson nodded in response. The cane was removed, and House took a seat in front of Wilson's desk, crossing one leg over the other. "Don't worry about it. She seemed to be happy with her life, aside from that asshole of a husband."

"It's not that," Wilson argued, gently, recalling what House had said not too long ago about how he couldn't handle it when things went wrong with a patient. He couldn't --- House knew that better than he did -- but because Margaret had been so calm he didn't feel as much guilt as he normally would have. After another moment or so of silence between them, Wilson let out a sigh. "House," he finally muttered, the other arching an eyebrow and leaning forward with interest. "Do you think I'm... beautiful?"

Silence. For almost an entire minute, House remained completely and frighteningly silent. Wilson was thinking of explaining when House finally found his voice. "... A little late to be coming out of the closet, don't you think?" he asked, skeptically. "I mean, three wives later and you're just realizing it now?"

"No," Wilson cried in dismay. "I don't mean like that. I mean, beautiful in any kind of way. It doesn't have to be outside, or in a feminine way, just..." He sighed. "Just tell me what you think of me."

"What I think of you," House repeated, flatly.

"Yes."

"Like... your personality?"

"Yes," Wilson responded, more urgently this time.

House looked thoughtful. "So, anything that I think about your personality and your life as long as we've been friends?"

"Yes!" Wilson cried, growing restless. "House, come on, this is serious!"

"Okay, okay," House responded, putting his hands up in surrender as he thought of something suitable to say. After a few moments, he decided. "I think you're a doormat." Wilson groaned, but House continued anyway. "I also suspect that you're a homosexual somewhere in there." Another protesting sound, but the crippled man pressed on. "And you have no taste in women, or clothing for that matter, frankly your workout routine needs a little help, and your furniture really needs to be replaced."

Wilson growled, angrily standing. "Just forget it!" he snapped. "Get out of my office."

"Wait, I wasn't finished," House sighed, pausing before he continued. "I also think you're talented. You're a much more personable doctor than I could ever be. You're selfless and kind for letting me crash with you for so long without complaint. You're intelligent when you allow yourself to be, and charismatic at times, but most importantly..." House made a cartoonish swallowing noise, as though this next one was the worst. "You're a saint for putting up with me all this time and rarely ever being a bitch about it."

Wilson stood, speechless, before the other. "House," he breathed. "I... Thank you. I never knew you felt that way about me."

House shrugged, standing with a grunt. "Don't get me wrong, you're not my type, but I suppose, in a way, that does make you... beautiful."

Their eyes met, and Wilson realized something he hadn't thought in a long time. He and House were meant for each other. Not as lovers, or soul-mates, but as brothers, comrades, and most importantly as friends. They needed each other. And now Wilson realized that House really did care for him in his own, weird way.

"... Thanks, House," he replied with a quirky smile. "You're beautiful, too."

Grinning, House hobbled over to his comrade, replying, "There are different kinds of beauty, my dear Wilson. And I think mine is the most dangerous and beautiful of all." As the pair left the office, Wilson's laughter could be heard throughout the intricate hallways of the hospital.


End file.
